“That sounds perfect.” His voice is deeper than usual, with a little more gravel, and I wonder what it will take to bring it out even more. I can’t wait to find out.
I lift my hand to cup his cheek, feeling the shiny smoothness that indicates a recent shave, and lean up to catch his mouth in another kiss. I’m not short, but he’s so much taller that I have to stretch a little. I like it.
This kiss is slower than the last one. It’s like now that we know what we want, we’re happy to take our time and just enjoy each other. I could kiss him like this for hours… days… wee?—
“Ouch!” I jump back as the oil in the wok spits at me.
Griff pulls me away from the stove. “Are you okay?” His concern is sweet, considering how minor an incident it was. I probably wouldn’t have noticed if it hadn’t intruded on my floaty kiss feelings.
I nod. “Yeah, I’m fine, but I guess the universe wants us to save kissing for later.”
He chuckles. “So rude.” He turns back to the stove and adds the tofu to the vegetables as he says over his shoulder, “I poured some wine for you—it’s on the table.”
I glance around and spot it. “Thank you.”
By the time I’ve crossed the kitchen and taken a sip of really excellent wine, Vivi wanders over to stare up at me. “You want cuddles?” I ask her.
“Sure—oh, you’re talking to the dog.” Griff winks at me, and I chortle.
“Smart-ass. Vivi’s first. You’ll get your cuddles later.” I bend with my wineglass in one hand and scoop Vivi up with my free arm. She immediately licks my neck, then settles against mychest and surveys the kitchen like it’s her domain. I lean against the counter near Griff and take a hefty slug of wine. It’s not exactly medically recommended, but alcohol in moderation does help to mitigate anxiety. It’s a fine line between just enough to take the edge off and enough to create its own anxiety, but a couple of mouthfuls isn’t going to hurt. And I need to have edges soft for this conversation, because if I’m wrong, it’s going to shatter me.
“Since we both seem to be on the intense side for people who’ve just started dating, we should probably talk about my mutism.” I’m so glad I got that whole sentence out.
Griff turns off the heat and gives me his full attention. It’s gratifying, but also scary. Sometimes these things are easier to talk about without looking people in the eye.
“You don’t have to tell me anything unless you want to. I’ll give you whatever you need from me without any explanations required.”
My heart melts. How can he be so perfect? Maybe he leaves wet towels on the bed—he has to havesomeflaw.
“Thank you. That means a lot. Did you… How much do you know about selective mutism?” It feels weird to ask if he googled it even though I know a lot of people do after they meet me.
He shakes his head. “Not much. Just that it’s related to anxiety, mostly occurs in kids but can also affect adults, and that it affects people differently. Oh, and also that it sometimes co-occurs with autism or ADHD.”
“That’s more than what a lot of people know, and yeah, basically. I was diagnosed as a kid with social anxiety and selective mutism, so it’s pretty much always been part of my life. Sometimes when I’m more anxious than usual, or even if I’m just feeling really intense emotions, I can’t talk. At its worst, that means I’m having a panic attack and need to get the hell away from wherever I am before I completely shut down, but a lot ofthe time it’s not like that. I can still function, but I just don’t feel great.”
That’s an understated way of explaining it, but it’s hard to make people who don’t have anxiety understand. Any time I’m not in my own home, having a good day, with all my comfort things and no bad vibes, I’m anxious. It’s a low-level anxiety, and I can ignore it and still have a great time, but it’sthere. I could be with friends who love and support me, in one of their homes where there’s nobody to distress me, laughing and enjoying myself, but it’s still there, and there’s also always the chance it will ramp up. That’s just how it works. What matters is how high it has to get before I can’t ignore it anymore, and unlike a lot of other people with anxiety, mine makes itself known when it gets to that level by taking away my voice.
“When it’s like that, I usually try to get on with my day as much as possible. I might cancel a meeting that’s not important, but I can usually cope to a certain degree. Other times, my anxiety will be bad enough that I can’t manage any social tasks, and I’ll lock myself in my office. If it was linked to something specific, getting away from that catalyst and giving myself time will usually help, but sometimes it’s not that simple—or it’s just a bad day.”
Griff nods slowly. “What do you need from me when you’re… is mute the right word?”
It’s gratifying to be asked. “I prefer nonverbal. And it’s different every time. I’ll let you know what I need, unless I’m completely shutting down, in which case just put my noise-cancelling earbuds in and get me home. That hasn’t happened in years,” I add when he looks concerned. “My anxiety isn’t as bad as a lot of people’s, and I’m good at knowing how much I can take before I need to act. It helps that I’m self-employed and that Calla and my other friends take no bullshit when it comes to running interference.”
“Good,” he says fiercely. “I knew I liked Calla. So your anxiety is triggered by social situations? People?”
I shrug and take another sip of wine. This has gone surprisingly well—better than usual when I have to have this conversation. “Yes. But it’s not consistent. I know generally what kind of situation is going to be too much for me, but sometimes things I’ve been able to do a million times will suddenly make me nonverbal. And sometimes even when I’m in a safe place with people I trust, I can’t talk.” I swallow hard. “If we’re going to date, you have to be okay with that.” It’s not something I can change, and having my boyfriend get annoyed when I’m anxious is only going to make my anxiety worse.
He turns back to the stove, takes the cover off the steamer, and begins scooping rice into two bowls. My heart sinks. Is this his way of saying?—
“I’m trying not to be mad that you even had to say that,” he says. “Because that means that someone, sometime, made you feel like even when you were in a safe place with someone you trusted, you actually couldn’t trust them.”
It takes me a minute to process what he means. He’s mad, but not at me.
“Just so you have the words direct from my mouth, I’m okay with it if you’re nonverbal. I’ll still worry a little, and maybe fuss over you, but I won’t blame you or be upset about it.” He turns back from the stove, a bowl brimming with rice and vegetables in each hand, and it’s all I can do not to throw myself in his arms.
“Sounds good.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
